


Give Me One Blessing

by HellsFiction



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (so far) - Freeform, Cirilla just wants answers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Geralt apologises, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier deserves better, Jaskier has been looking over Ciri, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach is a good girl, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23073748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellsFiction/pseuds/HellsFiction
Summary: Cirilla's curiosity is piqued when she encounters a bard who sings about her guardian with heartache in his eyes. Jaskier knows he should stay away from Geralt unless he wants to be hurt again.  And Geralt doesn't know what he wants.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 50
Kudos: 1272





	1. I'm not sure I was even that

Since meeting Geralt and joining him on his travels, Ciri had heard a lot of stories about her destined Guardian. Sometimes whispered, doleful praise, murmurs of the White Wolf, the people he’d saved, the monsters he’d slain. Sometimes bitter, spat insults and suspicious mutters. Sometimes the stories were in the form of songs performed by bards in whichever tavern they were staying at: Geralt seemed to hate taverns, hated towns and cities especially, but the Witcher would put up with them if it meant Ciri had a roof over her head, a warm meal in her belly and a bed to sleep in.

The songs the bards sang were Ciri’s favourite stories about Geralt. They were songs of epic fights and heroic acts, nothing but unabashed praise for the Witcher, full of respect and adoration. Ciri could listen to them all night, but the moment Geralt heard the songs he would scowl and usher Ciri upstairs to her room as soon as she had finished her meal.

Of course, that didn’t mean that Ciri didn’t get to listen to the songs. Whenever Geralt left her in a tavern while he collected on a contract, with terse instructions to stay in the room where she was out of sight and safe from anyone who still held a grudge against the Cintran Princess, she would sneak down and linger near the stairs to listen to the bards' songs. Sometimes, when she felt brave (which was getting more and more often now these days) she would wander closer to drop a couple of coins in the bard's hand and request ‘Toss a coin to your Witcher’.

That evening wasn’t any different. Geralt had headed out a few hours ago into the pouring rain to hunt down his latest contract, and Ciri slipped out of her room and headed down to the bustling tavern. It was packed, far fuller than any tavern they’d previously stayed at. The town they were in wasn’t even particularly big, so it was strange for the tavern to be so busy: all of the tables were taken, men and women were clustered around the bar, and there were even people standing near the door. Casting her eyes across the tavern, Ciri soon realised why.

The bard standing near the stairs, strumming on his lute and holding his audience captive with his sweet singing was almost painfully familiar. Jaskier had played in her grandmother's court several times in the last couple of years before the fall of Cintra. He was funny and sweet, and would take any requests Ciri had of him (although he had once informed her that he would only play his ‘new songs’). It was no surprise that the tavern was so full, with someone so talented playing.

But Ciri hadn’t seen him since the Nilfgaardian forces had taken Cintra, and her last encounter with people from her past had gone badly. The girl swallowed and started to slowly retreat back up the stairs, but she was too slow: the bard’s eyes swept across the room, widening in surprise when they fell upon Ciri. The surprise was quickly replaced with a bright smile, and Ciri hesitated in her retreat before moving back down and sitting at the bottom of the steps to listen to the bard’s songs.

She’d been listening for almost an hour when the bard called for requests, and she fumbled for her coin pouch. But before she could move forwards to request anything, several voices had already called for ‘Toss a coin to your Witcher’. Jaskier offered an insincere smile and shook his head.

“Surely you’ve heard that to death, what about something newer? The Elusive, maybe? Or the Eternal Fire?” He just received more calls for Ciri’s favourite song for his troubles, and he grimaced.

“Come on, bard!” The barkeeper called. “It’s not every day we get to hear ‘Toss a Coin’ from the mouth of the original writer himself! We want to hear of your travels with the White Wolf!”

That was news to Ciri, and her head snapped around from looking at the bartender to staring at Jaskier with wide eyes. Jaskier seemed to notice this, and after a moment he sighed and held up his hand.

“Alright, my good people, I heed to your demands.” He gave in, smiling as he lifted his lute and acknowledged the cheers. Ciri beamed and pushed herself to her feet moving up a couple of steps so she could see Jaskier clearly above the heads of the other patrons as he started the song. Her smile soon faded.

The bard sung with as much energy as any bard Ciri had witnessed singing the song, but Jaskier’s smile didn’t meet his eyes. It was sour, bitter. He sang as if his mind was miles away, stuck in a different time. And although others joined in, and cheered when he finished, and tossed coins his way, the fake smile didn’t grow any more genuine.

Somehow, the performance left a heavy pit in her stomach. Continuing to watch the bard felt wrong, and Ciri made her way back up the stairs, pausing only long enough to shoot one last look at Jaskier before disappearing back into her room.

She tried to distract herself by reading one of the few books Geralt had gotten his hands on for her, but her mind kept drifting to Jaskier. Geralt had told her a little of his past, and she had met Yennifer a few times during their travels, but Geralt had never mentioned a bard at all. She had assumed that the songs about Geralt came from tales passed on by people he’d saved. But apparently the bard who’d entertained the Cintran court and made her laugh had also _just happened_ to have travelled with her destined guardian?

Unless he’d entertained in the Cintran court _because_ he’d travelled with Geralt? Maybe Geralt had asked him to keep an eye on her? But then if he trusted Jaskier enough to watch over her, why wouldn’t he talk about him? And why did Jaskier seem so bitter when he was singing about Geralt?

Questions swirled around her head, and she endeavoured to ask Geralt when he was back. For now, she extinguished all but one candle and climbed into the bed. They’d been on the road for weeks, and it wasn’t long before she’d fallen asleep, even with the questions plaguing her mind.

* * *

She was startled awake by a crash of thunder, lightning flashing across the room before throwing it back into darkness. The thunder had been so loud that the following silence seemed to ring in her ears, interrupted only by the sheets of rain slamming against the window, hard enough to make it shake in its setting. The candle she’d left had burnt down to the quick, and Ciri’s eyes darted to the chair near the door, where Geralt would normally take up watch.

He still wasn’t there. Ciri didn’t know how long she’d been asleep for, but surely it had been long enough for Geralt to finish his contract and return? He’d never left her alone for so long, and for a moment an icy fear gripped her as she imagined the worse. What would she do if something had happened to her guardian? How was she supposed to move forwards without a destiny to move towards?

Forcing herself to take a breath, Ciri climbed out of bed and grabbed her cloak, blindly searching for her boots in the dark. Geralt was a Witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf. He wasn’t going to fall outside of some no-name town with no witnesses, he was going to die a mighty heroes death. And if her destined guardian fell, surely she would feel something, just like when she’d first laid eyes on Geralt and had _known_ , without doubt, that he was hers, and she was his.

But the fact was that Geralt was out there, in the pouring rain and thunder, and if he hadn’t returned yet, then surely _something_ must have happened to him.

“Where are you,” Ciri huffed as she continued to grope blindly for her boots, jumping when another flash of lightning lit up the room, just long enough for her to spy them, lying on the floor near the foot of the bed. She fumbled to pull them on and hurried out of the room, pulling up her hood as she headed down the stairs.

The girl stopped at the foot of the stairs. The tavern had mostly emptied out now, with only the barkeeper mopping up a puddle of spilt ale – at least, she hoped it was ale – and Jaskier sat at a cleared table, counting out coins. The bard looked up at her, frowning when he saw her expression.

“Your hi- My lady,” He corrected himself, throwing a glance at the barkeeper. The large man straightened up, looking between Ciri and Jaskier. When he met Jaskier’s eyes he rolled his own, grabbing up his mop and bucket and heading through the door behind the bar into the kitchen. Jaskier turned back to Ciri, pushing himself to his feet. “What’s the matter?”

* * *

* * *

Jaskier pulled his doublet tighter around himself as he strode out of the town and into the forest the Princess had told him Geralt had headed out to. The rain had been comforting in the warm confines of the tavern, and Jaskier had looked forward to falling asleep to the sound of the rain outside. But now it was bitterly cold, biting at any exposed skin and obscuring his vision.

“Should just leave the ungrateful bastard out there,” He muttered to himself as the ground grew less stable underfoot. His shoes were surely ruined now as they sunk into wet mud, squelching and gripping at his feet so that every step was an arduous task.

The concern on the Princesses face was what kept him moving forwards. He’d tried to assuage her fears, explaining that when he’d travelled with Geralt, the man had sometimes spent the entire night out on a contract. But Princess Cirilla had been adamant that, since meeting his Surprise Child, Geralt had never spent so much time away.

Jaskier wasn’t worried. Even if something had happened to Geralt, he would still make his way back to his Surprise Child. If anything, he was annoyed: This was Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra, Pavetta’s daughter. And Geralt had just left her alone in some backwater tavern. When he found the Witcher, he’d give him a piece of his mind-

A whinny stopped Jaskier in his tracks and he turned, peering through the trees.

“Roach?” He called and was answered with another whinny. Swearing under his breath, Jaskier stumbled towards the sound, sighing when he saw the mare. She was tossing her head and scratching at the ground with her hooves, and Jaskier quickly approached her, gently stroking her nose to calm her. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s me, Jaskier. You remember me right?” He cooed. “Where’s Geralt? Where did he go?”

Geralt had always spoken to Roach as if she could understand him, and when Jaskier had questioned this he’d just received a blank stare, as if he was the idiot. He didn’t think any horse could possibly be as smart as Geralt claimed, but right now she was his only lead. Shivering fingers fumbled with her lead, untying her from the tree Geralt had hitched her to, and he patted her side. “Lead me to him.” He encouraged. Even without Geralt around, he knew better than to climb up onto Roach, instead just walking alongside her.

Roach led him through the forest. He wasn’t sure how long they’d walked for – long enough that his coat was completely soaked through and the cold was now nipping at his arms and legs – and Jaskier was starting to think he’d made a mistake and was just walking in circles following a dumb animal when he saw the first rock.

It was huge, embedded into a tree that was buckled over it as if the rock had been thrown into it with great force, and the longer Jaskier looked at it, the more it seemed to look like an arm. A mutated, stone arm with rocks jutting out at odd angles, the entire thing was nearly the same height as Jaskier himself.

Not far past the rock was a large circle of burnt-out grass and blown away trees. Chunks of rock lay around this circle embedded in the ground and the trees, and Jaskier’s heart leapt to his throat when he saw Geralt slumped against a tree, head hung low. His clothes were ripped and torn, the left sleeve completely burnt away, and a jagged burn marred his arm.

Jaskier had only a second to stare, transfixed by the sight of his beloved, even in this sorry state, before Roach was nudging him. He stumbled forwards to the Witcher’s side, dropping to his knees and sticking his hand in front of Geralt’s mouth and nose. The bard let out a sigh when he felt Geralt’s breath, weak but warm on Jaskier’s freezing fingers. Still alive.

“Come on, wake up you great oaf,” He muttered, resting his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher’s entire body jerked in response and he snatched his hand away, frowning when Geralt muttered something before settling back down, slumping down and toppling to the side. It didn’t seem as if Geralt was going to be getting up any time soon.

Alright. Jaskier just had to figure out how to get Geralt up and onto Roach. Easy.

It took a lot of pulling, huffing and swearing, but Jaskier managed to lift Geralt up and drape him over the back of an extremely patient Roach. He was rewarded with a head shake and a chuff from the horse, and in response he rubbed her side. “I’m going to sneak you an apple later on.” He announced as he slipped off his doublet and draped it over Geralt: It may be soaked through, but it was better than nothing against the harsh rain hammering down on them. “Come on. Let’s get him back to the Princess.” Roach turned and moved back the way they came from as if she’d actually understood him, and Jaskier marvelled after her before hurrying to follow Geralt’s faithful steed.

Throughout the entire journey back, Geralt seemed to come in and out of consciousness, signalled only with the white-haired man’s rough voice mumbling something intelligibly under his breath. Each time Jaskier would pause them to reach up and brush the Witcher’s hair back and murmur soft encouragements until Geralt slipped back into his unconscious state. With this, and with how slowly Roach walked to avoid Geralt falling off her back, it took twice as long to get back to the tavern.

But eventually they were back. Roach was taken to the stables where it was dry and somewhat warmer than outside, and then he proceeded with the mighty task of dragging 6’ of muscle and angst the short distance from the stables to the tavern. He dropped Geralt several times, wincing every time the man’s head hit the ground with a dull, wet thud, mud splattering across him. “Well, those clothes are a write off anyway.” He muttered as he picked Geralt up for the third time, finally stumbling into the tavern.

Princess Cirilla was sat at the bar with a tankard as the barkeeper tidied around her, and they both looked up when the door opened. The Princess jumped to her feet and hurried to Geralt, while the barkeeper looked at the mud and rainwater Jaskier had just tracked in and let out a long-suffering sigh. Jaskier got out his coin purse while the Princess crouched by Geralt and placed a handful of coins on the bar.

“I need help getting him to my room.” He informed the barkeep, who took one look at the little pile Jaskier had placed down before sweeping them into his own pouch and helping the bard, taking Geralt’s arms.

“You take the legs, at my word we both lift.”

Hurray, more lifting. Jaskier bit back his sarcastic comment – something he’d had to learn to do when he was without Geralt’s protection – and picked up Geralt’s legs, grunting when they lifted the Witcher.

Even with two of them carrying Geralt, it wasn’t much easier progress, and Jaskier muttered a little apology every time Geralt’s head hit the stairs. The Princess followed them, holding Geralt’s swords.

“What about Roach?” She asked worriedly. Jaskier grunted as they lifted Geralt up another step.

“She’s safe, she’s in the stables.” He responded. “That horse is going to outlive us all. And up,” Finally they got Geralt to the top of the stairs and into Jaskier’s room, dropping him on the bed. Jaskier took the swords from Cirilla and placed them on the side, nodding his thanks to the Barkeeper. “Can you bring up some water?” He asked, crouching by the hearth he was lucky enough to have in his room to start a fire. The barkeep nodded and retreated back out of the room. Once he was out of earshot, Jaskier turned back to the Princess.

“Your Highness, I will tend to your guardian.” He reassured. “You return to your room, get some sleep. He’ll be fine.” He offered a smile, but Cirilla shook her head.

“I want to help,” She started, but Jaskier immediately shot that down.

“You want to be here while I strip him down and give him a sponge bath?” He asked wryly. The wide-eyed look he got in response was the only answer he needed, and he escorted the Princess back to her room. “As soon as he’s woken up, I will come and get you. He will be safe with me. This isn’t my first time licking his wounds.”

That gave the Princess pause, and she looked back at Jaskier.

“Were you really just a travelling companion?” She asked. Jaskier’s responding smile was bitter.

“I’m not sure I was even that.” He informed her frankly before returning back to his room, glancing back only to make sure the Princess had moved into her room and shut the door behind her.

In his room, he stirred the fire and placed a larger log in before returning to Geralt’s side, stripping off the man’s shirt and going through the bottles the Witcher kept in his pockets. A hand grabbing his own made him jump, and he looked up into golden eyes.

“Jas-” Geralt started, his eyes already fluttering shut again. Jaskier shoved his shoulder.

“No, hold on, don’t close your eyes yet. Which potion do you need?” He asked urgently, reaching up to sharply pat Geralt’s cheek until his eyes opened again. “ _Which potion_ , Geralt?” His Witcher- The Witcher blinked tiredly at him before reaching for his shirt, tired fingers feeling across the bottles before he pulled out a bottle with a thick, light green salve in it.

“This. On the burn,” He groaned, and Jaskier quickly grabbed the bottle as Geralt’s hand dropped.

He was applying the salve to the lightening shaped burns that branched across Geralt’s arm when his bedroom door opened. His hand jumped to his own blade at his hip, but he relaxed when he saw the barkeep with a bucket of water.

“Is this everything?” The man asked, and Jaskier nodded.

“That is perfect, thank you. Just hang it above the fire to heat up.” Once the barkeep had left, he turned back to his ministrations, using the last of the salve on the stark burn.

Once the water had heated he took it down from above the fire, tearing off a strip of his already ruined trousers and using the cloth to carefully clean the worse of the mud and grime and sweat from Geralt’s face, chest and arms. Once that was done, he worked on tugging off Geralt’s trousers, uncaring of the state of undress that left the man in: it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. The man was a mess of bruising and scrapes, and Jaskier could feel a familiar tug of curiosity. He wanted to know more, wanted to know what foe the Witcher had vanquished, how hard-fought the battle had been, what clever tricks Geralt had used to gain the upper hand, what feats of strength and cunning he had performed.

And then immortalise them all, dress them up as the heroic tales they really were, present them to enraptured audiences and boast because _that’s his Witcher_ , his friend, his beloved out there fighting monsters and saving humans and never once asking for thanks. Oh, he asked for coin, of course, for what he needed to survive, for what was owed to him. But he never retaliated to any of the insults, even when he deserved so much more. Never raised his voice.

Apart from once. Jaskier swallowed and focused on cleaning Geralt, being especially careful while cleaning the grazes to ensure that he wasn’t making them any worse.

Only when Geralt had been fully cleaned did Jaskier pull the covers over him before changing out of his own clothes, briefly washing himself with the remainder of the water. He hesitated when he turned back to his bed before steeling to himself: it was a big bed, and it was _his_ bed, and it wasn’t like he’d never slept close to Geralt in the past, during the cold trek to Kaer Morhen at the start of the winter months when Geralt would take pity on the mere human who was still affected by things like cold weather-

That was a dangerous train of thought, one that Jaskier stamped down on. Focusing on the memories of happier times, of moments when it seemed like Geralt may not absolutely despise him, only led to tears. Instead, Jaskier arranged the pillows so there was a barrier between Geralt and himself before climbing into the bed. He expected to be kept awake by the maddening lack of distance between him and Geralt, the heat of the body mere inches from his own, but it had been a long night and a tiring trek, and Jaskier was asleep before his head had even hit his pillow.


	2. It's what you are that's important

Jaskier woke to a door slamming, and he jerked up in the bed, looking wildly around, heart hammering in his chest. Geralt was still unconscious: Whatever had happened to him during his hunt, it must have been big, for Geralt had always been the lightest sleeper Jaskier knew, and he couldn't remember a time he'd been awake before the Witcher. His eyes slid to the door, breath catching when he saw the Princess pressed against it, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

"Your Highness," He greeted, slipping out of the bed, glad that he had kept his trousers on the night before. He grabbed a loose linen shirt and pulled it on, picking up his rapier after another glance at Princess Cirilla, attaching the sheath to his belt. "What's wrong?" He asked. The Princess turned striking green eyes to him before rushing to Geralt's side. Jaskier could sympathise. Even unconscious, the Witcher had been a comforting presence to him as well.

"There are soldiers out there," She said in a low, urgent voice. "Nilfgaardian soldiers!"

Jaskier glanced at the door before turning back to the Princess. "Did they see you?" He asked seriously. Cirilla shook her head, but she seemed hesitant, and Jaskier approached, her, crouching down to meet her eyes. "Are you sure? If they saw you-"

"I don't know." The Princess confessed. "I was going down to get breakfast for Geralt, I turned as soon as I saw them, but one of them was looking at the stairs..." She trailed off, and Jaskier nodded, understanding. Just because the soldier was looking in her direction didn't mean that they saw her, but that wasn't a chance the Princess could take.

"How many were there?" He asked. The Princess held up 3 fingers as she answered, and Jaskier nodded. "Alright. I'm going downstairs, close the door after me and block it with the chair," He pushed himself to his feet and moved to the door, showing Cirilla how to block it. "Only answer it to me, alright? I will knock when I'm back, like this," He wrapped out a pattern on the wooden chair.

Cirilla grabbed Jaskier's sleeve, already fearing the worst if Jaskier left and faced the soldiers. "Don't!" She pleaded. "It- They didn't see me! You don't need to go out there!" Jaskier offered what he sincerely hoped was a reassuring smile, taking the Princess' hand in his and gently untangling her white-knuckled grip from his sleeve.

"You don't need to worry about me. I know what I'm doing." He assured. Cirilla held tightly onto his hand for a moment before looking back at Geralt. After a long moment, she let go of Jaskier.

"You must promise to come back safe." She insisted. "Too many people have died protecting me."

Jaskier had no doubt of that, and he nodded. He had no intention of going down and starting a fight. If the men downstairs were just a couple of thugs looking to claim on a bounty, then he would have no problem with going down and ruffling some feathers. Trained soldiers, though, who surely had reinforcements lose by. That was another thing entirely.

He spied them as he headed down the stairs, briefly meeting the barkeeper's eyes as he did. The man looked wary of his current clientele, clearly not a supporter of the Nilfgaardian empire, and his expression soured as he turned back to the helmeted man leading the trio, clearly a Captain of some sort judging by his higher quality armour.

"I told you once already, I 'aven't seen any little girls. I run a tavern, not a school. Ye'r better off asking elsewhere." The barkeep snapped, turning to Jaskier as he approached. The bard offered a short nod to the soldiers before leaning on the bar and flashing the barkeep a grin.

"I don't suppose it's too much to ask for a spot of breakfast?" He asked. "Whatever you've got will suffice. Eggs? Meat? Bread?" He got a frown for his troubles, and he placed his coin pouch, still heavy from the night before even after paying the innkeeper for his help lifting Geralt up the stairs, on the bar, waggling his eyebrows. The man rolled his eyes but turned and headed into the kitchens, and Jaskier beamed after him. "Pile it on! Largest plate you have!" He chortled to himself and turned away from the bar, nodding once more to the soldiers. The Captain turned to face him fully, his eyes narrowing.

“You have quite the appetite.” He said, his voice thick and heavily accented. Jaskier shrugged.

“Performing is hungry work. Maybe not as hard as oh-so-bravely spreading his Eminence Emperor Emhyr’s noble reign to every farmer and beggar you come across,” He said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “But it is honest living. I was here all night entertaining.” That, as he was certain it would, got the Captain’s attention.

“All night you say?” He asked. “So you would be well acquainted with the patrons of this inn last night?” Jaskier leant on the bar, a smile teasing at his lips.

“You could certainly say I got ‘well acquainted’ with a few people last night,” He teased, leaning closer to the Nilfgaardian man as if sharing a secret, letting the neckline of his loose linen shirt spread wider as he did A look of distaste crossed the Captain’s face. He could only imagine how he must be viewing this lascivious, backwards Nordling. Interestingly, behind the captain, one of the soldiers' eyes lowered and fixated on the open shirt and the swathe of hair it revealed on Jaskier’s chest. He smirked to himself at the discovery. “Why, anyone in particular you’ve been looking for?” 

The Captain hummed and raised a hand, snapping his fingers. One of the soldiers behind him – not the one currently eyeing Jaskier up like he was a tall cold drink in the middle of a parched desert – passed forward a sheet of parchment, which the Captain then passed to Jaskier. At first glance, it looked akin to a wanted poster. There were pencilled sketches of Geralt and the Princess, with bold text underneath it. “We have received reports of people seeing the man in this area.” The Captain said. “Either of these familiar?”

“Monetary reward for information on the whereabouts of the above individuals, by order of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis,” Jaskier read out before snorting. “Yeah, I know that guy. Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher. I think he cashed in on a job and got out of town.” He offered a tight smile. “He and I have a sordid and sorry history. One look at me, and he fled,” His sigh was suitably dramatic and melancholic, and then Jaskier gestured to the paper. “Mind if I keep this? I’ll keep this in mind if I ever see him again and report it.”

“See that you do.” The Captain responded. “Any information should be passed straight to your nearest Empire Garrison.” He nodded tersely at the soldiers flanking him and turned to leave with a clipped 'Gloir aen Ard Feainn'. Jaskier wasn't fluent in Nilfgaardian, but he knew enough: 'Praise be the Great Sun'. 

"Melitele's Grace with you." He responded. Jaskier held a sardonic smile at their backs in case any of them turned. When the door shut behind them he dropped the smile and let out a breath, leaning heavily against the bar and pressing his lips together. They weren’t out of the lion's den yet, not until Cirilla was far away from any Nilfgaardian forces. If he had to guess, he would imagine that Geralt was taking her towards Kaer Morhen. The nights were growing longer, the days shorter, and the weather colder. If they left it until the snows started, the mountain passes would grow too treacherous: surmountable by a Witcher, but impossible with the Princess. And yet, if they headed there too soon, they risked drawing Nilfgaardian soldiers to the Witcher keep, something Jaskier knew Geralt would never do. 

Jaskier shook his head before glancing up as the innkeeper came out of the kitchen with his food. Placing the sizeable plate on the bar in front of Jaskier, the man glanced at the door before sniffing and spitting on the ground.

“Filthy Nilfgaardians. Not my empire.” He grumbled, and Jaskier’s smile returned, more genuine this time around but still not quite meeting his eyes.

“The only thing people around here hate more than Witchers are Nilfgaardian soldiers.” He noted. The Innkeeper shrugged.

“They’re offering coin. Sooner or later they’ll find someone willing to give them information for some coin, no matter what sentiment is shared.” Jaskier met the innkeeper’s eyes and hummed, a grim, tuneless sound, more akin to Geralt’s grunts then any noise the Bard would normally produce. 

“Well.” He started. “It’s a shame that no one has anything to tell them. Isn’t it.” The innkeeper held his gaze without flinching.

“Shame.”

Jaskier straightened, grabbing the plate before pausing. “I don’t suppose you have any apples?”

\---  
After delivering the breakfast to the Princess, Jaskier excused himself and headed out of the inn and towards the stables. Once there, he made a beeline for Roach, greeting her with soft praise and stroking her nose. The mare butted her head against his own, and Jaskier reached into his pocket and pulled out one of of the apples he’d acquired. “Geralt’s okay.” He informed her as the horse ate out of his hand, crunching the apple up between large teeth. “He just needs some rest and food, and then you will both be leaving. Better rest up while you can.”

Geralt’s habit of conversing with Roach had been one of his endearing oddities when Jaskier first met him. But after travelling by himself with his own horse, he understood the appeal. There was no judgement there, and when you spend that long by yourself, even your own voice was better than nothing.

Talking of his own horse, Jaskier’s murmured conversation with Roach was interrupted by the white Gelding nosing at his breeches pocket where he was keeping the other apple.

“Alright, Pegasus. Greedy creature.” He softly chided, producing the apple and feeding the dumb animal. His smile faltered after a moment, and he leant against his horse, closing his eyes. “This isn’t how I envisioned seeing him again,” Jaskier admitted softly. “For one, I thought he would be awake, so he could throw himself at my feet and beg my forgiveness.” He chuckled weakly before straightening up, stroking Pegasus’ neck before pulling away to head back to the inn. He spied the soldiers as he did, knocking on the door to one of the modest homes that made up the town, and offered a sickly sweet smile as he passed.

It seemed the innkeeper had been right, their Nilfgaardian friends had no intention of leaving the town until they had interrogated every man, woman and child. Geralt and the Princess wouldn’t be able to leave during the day, they would need to steal away during the night. Geralt wouldn’t be resting for that much longer. He was surprised the Witcher had been out of commission for even this long. The fight really must have been something special to witness.

In the inn, Jaskier stole back to his room, rhythmically knocking on the door as he had shown Cirilla before entering the room. The Princess had dragged the table chair across the room and was sitting in it next to the bed. Jaskier was glad to see that she had eaten some of the food he had brought up for her, the rest of it still on the plate on the table. The girl straightened up when she saw him.

“Your Highness,” Jaskier greeted. “How is he, is there any change?” Cirilla shook her head.

“He’s been mumbling, but he stopped before you came back in.” She told the Bard. “And you don’t have to call me that. I’m not a Princess anymore.”

Jaskier frowned at that, at the dull tone to Cirilla’s voice. The voice of a girl who had seen far too much far too soon. His heart went out to her, to the bright, obstinate little girl he had once played for. He rested his hand on Geralt’s forehead as he considered this.

Hot, but no hotter than Geralt usually ran. No fever to worry about, Geralt’s mutations were likely healing him up as best as they could. 

“So, what are you instead?” He asked, lifting his eyes to the girl. “It is all very well saying what you are not, my Lady, but it’s what you are that’s important.” Cirilla shrugged her shoulders, watching Jaskier closely. The Bard smiled. “Well, that is okay. You are still young. You have many years to decide what you are.” He uncovered Geralt’s shoulder to check the burn, which had faded from the angry vibrant red it had been the previous night to the shiny pink of still new skin. The smaller branches of the lightning-shaped burn had started to blur at the edges where they were healing over. Geralt would be left with a scar, but what was one more scar to the map that covered his body. One more story to be told.

“He’s been asleep for a long time.” The Princess commented, and Jaskier nodded.

“From what I understand, healing as fast as he does takes a lot of energy. When he does get badly injured, he needs rest, and food. But he will be awake soon. And once he is, he will be wanting to get back on the move again.” Jaskier crossed the room to steal a sausage from the breakfast plate on the table, eating it quickly. “Especially since there are Nilfgaardians about. You should make sure you are all packed, so you are ready. I’ve lost many a doublet or pair of trousers because Geralt would not wait long enough for me to pack before moving on.”

Cirilla looked doubtful, as if Geralt would never make her leave without first packing, but something in Jaskier’s face must have portrayed how serious he was about this because she slipped off the chair and headed to the door, pausing just inside it.

“You will tell me when he wakes, won’t you?” She checked. Jaskier’s smile felt more genuine then it had since the previous night.

“As soon as he wakes up, you will know.” He guaranteed. The Princess nodded before leaving the room, and Jaskier settled down in the chair she had vacated, picking up his lute and starting to pick out some notes as he waited for Geralt to wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's read, left Kudos and commented so far!


	3. Doting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for description of being struck by lightning
> 
> This was supposed to be the last chapter, but this chapter went so long that it's now been split into 2: the last chapter will be published next week!

Geralt brought his hand up to the broken tree branch he was examining, his fingers coming away slightly tacky. The feeling was quickly washed away by the rain that plastered his hair down and deadened any scent he would have otherwise used to track his prey.

“Sap hasn’t dried. We’re getting close, Roach.” He murmured before climbing off his horse, taking her reigns in hand and hitching her to the tree. “Stay.”

His horse nickered in response, and he stroked her neck before taking the pole he’d had specially made at the local blacksmiths and had wrapped up in leather and turning to head further into the forest after the trail of the Golem he’d picked up on.

Golems were generally passive, obedient creatures. If one was around, Geralt was generally more concerned about the Mage who had created the dumb machination than he was about the Golem itself. But this one had apparently taken to attacking travelling merchants on the road and then retreating further into the forest. The Mage who had enchanted it had died during some less than savoury experiments with the local populace, and now the Golem was just following its last orders and would continue to do so until the rocks forming it either wore themselves down or someone destroyed it.

They were frustrating creatures to defeat. Steel and silver would do nothing to affect it, he couldn’t hope to beat it in physical strength, and it couldn’t be reasoned with. He would have turned down the contract entirely and told the watchmen to just block off the trail and send merchants around the long way if it wasn’t for the fact that it was prime Golem fighting weather.

The chaos of lightening had to be utilised to make a Golem. And fortunately, that same force could be used to dismantle it. He’d had to invest in the copper pole he bore, crafted by the local blacksmith for him, but the contract the watchmen had offered would more than make up for it. He would get this done and then get back to Ciri. His child surprise wouldn’t be content with being shut up in their room all night. She was inquisitive and impatient for information, and if Geralt left her for too long, he was sure she would wander down from her room. She reminded him of another curious little bird.

Geralt shook his head, his wet hair slapping against his jaw and sticking there until he reached up and pushed it back. He’d been thinking of the bard more and more recently, to the point that it was starting to become distracting. He needed to focus on-

A mountain of rock burst from the trees, and Geralt reacted on instinct, nimbly dodging as the Golem’s arm slammed into the spot he had been standing not even a second ago, splashing up mud that splattered across Geralt’s face and chest.

With a quick movement, Geralt unwrapped the leather around the metal pole, quick eyes looking for a weak joint he could plunge the copper pole. He had to be back on the move before he could find a spot, grunting as he rolled out of the way. He didn’t hesitate this time, lunging forwards and jabbing the pole into the joint where the automaton’s neckless head met its body. The copper bar scraped against the rock with a shrill screech that stung Geralt’s ears, but he was more concerned about the rocky, fingerless fist that was swinging for his head. He dodged and grabbed the arm, using it to hoist himself up in a quick movement and swinging around the Golem where he could aim for the creature’s shoulder.

Again, despite thrusting with all of his strength, the pole just skittered across the rock and bent at the end, and Geralt grunted out a curse as he was thrown from the Golem’s shoulders, slamming hard into a tree with enough force to shatter a normal man’s ribs: the whole tree tilted, half of its roots ripping out of the ground. Geralt lifted his hand and cast Aard, swearing when it only knocked the Golem back by an inch. No use casting Quen, because the Golem would smash straight through it-

He ducked and rolled when the Golem swung at him, its fist shattering the bark and toppling the tree the rest of the way. Geralt grunted as he pushed himself back up. The sky lit up briefly, and then a second later thunder rolled. He didn’t have long.

Against his better judgement, Geralt surged forwards, ducking another swing and again trying to plunge the copper pole into the joint of the creature's knee. He had slightly better luck here, as the pole stuck for all of two seconds when he let go and dodged before clattering back to the floor. Geralt had to bait the Golem away for long enough for him to dart in and grab the metal. Another flash and a rumble of thunder filled the clearing, and the metal pole crackled and vibrated in his hands.

He really should have thought to pull on his gloves before enacting his plan. There was no time for that now, however. He had to act quickly.

Geralt was glad for how slow the Golem was, at least. It made circling and baiting it easy, if not a tiring endeavour. He leapt out of the way of another heavy swing and grabbed the Golem’s shoulders, hefting himself up until he was sat astride the Golem’s shoulders, holding himself on with his thighs wrapped tightly around the automaton’s head. He stuck his hand into the gap between the head and the back of the Golem and threw his weight back, trying to make the gap as large as possible.

As the Golem tried to throw him off, Geralt held on tight and tried to plunge the bar into the gap. It wasn’t wide enough yet, and Geralt squeezed his legs as the Golem thrashed, barely holding on.

He could feel the energy building around him, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end and the bar crackling with electricity. Geralt jabbed the pole down one last time, grunting in satisfaction when the pole jammed in and stuck. But his time was up, he could already tell. He had just enough time to let go of the pole and throw himself back before white filled his vision and pain flooded his mind.

Geralt registered his back hitting a tree and sliding down it, knees shaking for a moment as they tried to support him before giving in and letting him sink to the ground.

His ears were ringing, his shoulder felt like it was on fire, each breath he took was shallow and laboured, his mind was hazy. He tried to move, but all he managed was an interrupted shudder before his senses flashed with agony, and he collapsed back, knocked out by the magnitude of pain.

* * *

There was a familiar smell. He couldn’t quite place it, though. It was musky and very slightly sharp and sweet.

Someone was talking, but the voice was muffled and distorted. Despite that, even the voice was one he felt he should know.

Something touched his shoulder, sending another flash of pain through Geralt. He tried to pull away, tried to speak, to tell the person not to touch him, but his tongue was heavy and his mouth was dry. 

Thankfully the person moved their hand.

They smelled so familiar. Comforting. Reassuring...

* * *

He was on Roach. He would recognise that smell anywhere.

“You found me,” He murmured to the horse. Or, at least, he tried, but his tongue betrayed him, and all that spilled from his mouth were a series of quiet, illegible syllables. His mumbles were met with a kind voice and a calloused hand pushing through his hair. The touch was strangely friendly, caring even, enough to settle him and stop him from trying to push himself up. To Geralt’s shame, in his half conscious state, a strangled whine left him when the hand moved away from him.

Geralt didn’t know how much time had passed, or how many times he drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time he did, the soft touch and calming voice were there, soothing him back to sleep. Geralt tried to resist the call of darkness, trying to place the fingers carding through his hair, long and talented and doting.

Doting.

“Jaskier.” He tried to say.

“Mmpa.” He said instead.

At the very least, armed with this knowledge, Geralt let himself be dragged back into the darkness of sleep again.

* * *

The next time Geralt woke, it was to a clear mind. The searing pain in his shoulder had deadened and dulled to a dull ache. Instead of the hard, wet ground, he was in a soft, dry bed, and gentle lute music played over the sound of the rain hitting the window and the softly crackling fire in the hearth. Which meant that the foggy memories lingering in his mind weren't dreams. Which meant...

Geralt opened his eyes and breathed in. There was a stone ceiling above him, outside of the window the sun was steadily setting, and his nose was filled with the scent of cedarwood and roses. "Jaskier." He muttered, propping himself up onto his elbows with a grunt of pain and looking around. He wasn't in his and Ciri's room: This room had a hearth, and a small table and chair next to it. The bed was larger too. Clearly Jaskier had spent a little extra on the best room he could get. That didn't surprise Geralt at all.

The bard in question was sat in a second chair by the bed, plucking away at his lute and humming. It wasn't one of the tunes that Geralt recognised, not one he'd ever played to him. Geralt just stared at the bard for a while, not sure what to say. The little lark looked good, healthy. He was wearing a loose, light blue linen shirt. A golden yellow doublet was drying in front of the fire in the hearth. Geralt's eyes were drawn to the bard's hip, where a rapier hung from his belt.

"Since when do you carry a sword?" He asked, interrupting the soft music. Jaskier stopped playing and glanced up at him, expression unreadable. His scent turned sharp and sour.

"Well, even a bard needs to be able to protect himself when he's travelling alone" He responded, rising to his feet and placing his lute down on the chair. "The princess was waiting for you to wake." He added. Geralt nodded and started to push himself up, hesitating when the covers fell into his lap.

"Jaskier. Where are my clothes?" He asked shortly, a hint of a growl to his voice. The bard rolled his eyes. He looked as relaxed and confident as Geralt remembered him, but his scent was acrid. It was the smell of poison, left to fester and feed and spread. It was not Jaskier's scent. Not Jaskier as Geralt knew him.

When he looked back, he would realise that he had smelt that scent once before, but he'd been too fixated on the fading scent of lilac and elderberries.

"The trousers and armour have been washed and dried,” Jaskier started. “But the shirt was ripped beyond saving. Hope you’ve still got a spare.” Geralt nodded. That made sense, getting struck by lightning would do that. That didn’t explain why he was almost naked save for his smalls, but he chose not to chase that line of questioning. He turned his eyes back to Jaskier, watching the bard. Jaskier held his gaze, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms over his chest.

Geralt was the first to break the stare.

“I do. In my bag in my room. Where is Ciri?”

He could feel Jaskier’s gaze still on him, but after a moment Jaskier responded.

“She’s packing. You’ve had Nilfgaardian soldiers asking after you.”

Geralt tensed and pushed himself out of bed, crossing the room to grab his trousers and pulling them on. They had to leave as soon as possible-

“Did you get the money for your contract before you headed out?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt stopped, half-way through buttoning up his trousers.

“Fuck.” He muttered. He couldn’t go to the ealderman now to claim the contract. He didn’t have evidence of the Golems deconstruction, and if he headed to the ealderman now, there was a strong chance he could be spotted and reported to the Nilfgaardian soldiers. And if he was reported, then Ciri would be in danger.

“That’s a no.” Jaskier sighed. “Didn’t think so. You need that contract money, Geralt. The Princess can’t be sleeping rough, she deserves better.”

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Geralt growled, but Jaskier spoke over him.

“Don’t be dense, of course you have a choice. _I_ can claim the contract for you.” Geralt turned, raising an eyebrow at Jaskier and running his eyes over the Bard’s frame: Strong, muscled, but not _Witcher_ strong. Jaskier scowled. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not saying I’ll claim to have killed the monster. People know that I’m associated with you, despite my efforts to the contrary.” Geralt frowned, but Jaskier kept speaking before the Witcher could say anything. “You take Cirilla and leave, and in the morning I’ll collect from the ealderman, all I need is information about the contract and a token to prove I’m collecting on your behalf.”

Geralt hummed, considering this. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before, Jaskier collecting on his contract, for various reasons: whether because they were short on time, or Geralt was too tired or in too much pain to put up with the suspicious stares or insults. And if it was anyone else, Geralt would say no.

But he _trusts_ Jaskier. That’s what makes him nod his head. Ciri was okay, he could hear her a few rooms down, humming to herself as she moved around the room. He grabbed the chair next to the table and sat down in it, turning his gaze back to Jaskier and explaining the details of the contract, not missing the way Jaskier’s fingers twitched. Before the mountain, Jaskier would be sat at the table with him, frantically scribbling down every detail and probing Geralt for more information. But now, he settled for the bare minimum that Geralt offered him, and in turn updated him on the situation with the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

He was finishing off the encounter with the soldiers when Geralt’s head lifted, listening as Ciri opened and closed the door to their room. She was carrying something heavy by the sound of it, and Geralt pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the door, ignoring Jaskier’s muttered “Alright, I’ll stop talking I guess” and leaving the room to help Ciri. She was hauling both of their bags, her own fairly light bag and Geralt’s heavy sack with his spare armour, clothes and food, and her eyes lit up when she saw Geralt, dropping both bags and surging forwards to hug her guardian. Geralt returned the hug, his grip tight but carefully measured to avoid hurting his Child Surprise.

“You’re okay.” Ciri breathed out, and Geralt hummed in response, holding Ciri for a little longer, letting her go when Jaskier appeared in the door. Ciri turned slightly accusing eyes on Jaskier as Geralt picked up the bags; his shoulder still hurt, the pain spiking when he lifted his bag, but it was far more bearable now, and it would finish healing by the following morning.

“You said you would get me when he woke,” Ciri said, and Jaskier smiled softly, his eyes fond.

“I beg for your pardon, Cirilla,” He started, and Geralt quickly glanced around to make sure there were no one close enough to hear them. “I got carried away filling him in. But you’re right, I should have come to get you immediately.” Ciri’s glare softened, and she nodded after a moment, Jaskier’s apology apparently appeasing her.

Impressive in itself. Ciri had once refused to talk to Geralt for an entire day because he’d left for a job without telling her. But then, Geralt hadn’t exactly made an attempt to apologise like Jaskier did, and Jaskier had always been far better with people than Geralt was.

“Ciri.” Geralt got his Child Surprise’s attention as he opened his bag and pulled out his plain black tunic, pulling it on. “We’re leaving now.” The princess straightened and took her bag from Geralt, apparently expecting this. Before they left, Geralt pulled off his medallion and passed it to Jaskier, who stared at it with wide eyes as he accepted it. “To show the ealderman, you said you’d need a token.”

“I did, yes, right,” Jaskier muttered quickly, shoving the medallion in his pocket. Geralt rested his gaze on Jaskier, trying to decipher the strange expression on his face.

“Jaskier,” He started gruffly, pausing when the Bard looked up at him. Blue locked with gold, and Geralt’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. “We’ll wait for you at the crossroads.” He finally said and turned away, steering Ciri down the stairs and towards the door at the back of the tavern, ignoring his charge’s judgemental gaze.

Geralt moved his hand to rest it on Ciri's shoulder as they slipped silently out of the back door, his sharp eyes peering through the dim light, the sun now almost completely set. When true night fell, he would still be able to see through the dark, but not as well as now, and he would need to supplement his natural – or rather, supernatural – Witcher senses with a Cat potion. For now, though, he was fine, even if Ciri was struggling to peer through the early night.

"Quietly now." He murmured to Ciri before walking forwards, gently steering the girl along with him. Leaving from the back of the inn meant that they could avoid the rough road from the front, but it didn't mean there was no danger. Any soldier worth his salt wouldn't just be searching the road, they'd be going between houses, shining torches over fields, checking every nook and cranny. They would still have to be slow and quiet as they headed towards the stables to get Roach

Keeping his ears out and tracking the movement of the Nilfgaardian soldiers by sound, Geralt carefully headed towards the stables, his hand never leaving Ciri's shoulder as he did. They had made some slow progress when Geralt heard a door open, from the direction of the road. The Nilfgaardian soldiers had started going door to door, it seemed, asking each occupant of the houses for information. The answers they were getting, on the whole, were short and irritable. They were far north enough that there was still a strong rebellious streak that had been kicked and beaten out of their southern kinsmen.

Geralt let them move a little faster, assured that the soldiers were distracted talking to the townsfolk. From what Jaskier had said, there were just three: the Captain and the two soldiers accompanying him.

They reached the stables without any issues, and Geralt led them around the back, where he'd noticed a window with no latch when he had stopped at the stables the previous day. As he'd suspected, the wooden blinds opened with no resistance, and he checked inside the stable before quickly ducking, biting back a curse. A Nilfgaardian soldier stood at the entrance of the stable, his back to them. Even if they snuck into the stables without the soldier turning and spotting them, they would still need to get Roach pass the soldier.

They could leave Roach, hope that when Jaskier rode out to meet them with the payoff from the contract that he also had the sense to bring Roach along with him, and turn and head into the forest. But the thought of leaving his horse behind left a hollow pit in his stomach.

Roach wasn't the only Roach he'd had: he was approaching 90 years old (probably, he'd stopped counting a long time ago) and horses did not live as long as a Witcher. But each Roach had been loved and treasured, and for a long time they'd been his only companionship. Geralt let out a breath and started to head away from the stable, stopping when Ciri caught his hand.

"We can't leave behind Roach!" She insisted in a whisper. Geralt sighed.

"Ciri-" He started, but he stopped abruptly and breathed in. The wind had changed, and now the scent of cedarwood and roses tickled his nose. He frowned and pushed himself up to peer through the window. The Nilfgaardian solder was still stood with his back to them, guarding the stable entrance. But now a new figure was swaggering his way towards them.

Jaskier had pulled on his doublet but had left the neck wide open – moreso then he normally did, which was saying something – and was wearing nothing underneath it. Two bottles of wine hung loosely from his hands. He offered a smile to the soldier, and though Geralt couldn't see the soldier's face, he could smell the lust that wafted from him, and hear the spike in his heartbeat.

Geralt quickly sunk back down, realising what Jaskier was doing.

"Pleasant evening, isn't it?" Jaskier's voice commented. Geralt grabbed Ciri and pulled her back down when she tried to stand to look through the window: The girl didn't need to see what the Bard was planning. In fact, she didn’t need to hear it either, and Geralt covered Ciri’s ears, despite the girl’s squirming and hissed protests.

Jaskier and the soldier chatted pleasantly for several minutes. It was all very standard affair for Jaskier, the sort of insincere casual flirting that Geralt had heard hundreds of times from the Bard, directed at men and women alike, and at Geralt himself. Pretty words that meant something only as long as you could hold the bard’s attention.

That thought was immediately followed by a sting of guilt: that wasn’t fait. That wasn’t what Jaskier was like, and he knew it. He was just… Trying to rationalise Jaskier’s attraction. Attraction which was apparently dead and gone because of Geralt’s own stupid actions-

“Come on,” Jaskier’s voice carried to Geralt, interrupting his thoughts, and Geralt lifted his head. Jaskier had raised the volume of his voice, and he sounded drunk. But Geralt couldn’t smell any drink over than the muted scent of the corked wine, and they’d only left Jaskier a mere couple of minutes ago. “What your Captain doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” The Nilfgaardian mumbled something, the words so muffled that even Geralt couldn’t make them out. Geralt frowned deeply when Jaskier _giggled_ , and he lifted himself enough to look through the window again. The Bard was practically draped over the Nilfgaardian soldier, fluttering pretty blue eyes at him. The soldier had taken off his helmet at some point, placing it on the ground next to the two bottles Jaskier had brought, and the look in his eyes turned Geralt’s stomach. Jaskier hummed and reached for the soldier’s hand, lifting it to his lips and brushing a soft kiss over the fingers. “Fine. But we can still have some fun here, right?” He asked. “You, me, some good wine,”

The Nilfgaardian soldier _leered_ at Jaskier. Geralt growled deep in his throat, and Jaskier’s eyes darted to him, widening slightly.

“What is it,” The soldier asked, starting to turn. Geralt quickly ducked again, tensing and getting ready to scoop Ciri up and run. But there were no shouts or footsteps approaching. The Witcher frowned and knelt up again, scowling when he looked through the window.

Jaskier had grabbed the soldier’s face and pulled him in to a deep kiss, eyes tightly closed. As the kiss deepened, the soldier moved forwards, slipping his arms around Jaskier’s waist, and the two turned so Jaskier was pinned against the door frame, his hip bumping into a table that held leather care supplies on it to tend to saddles.

Geralt felt sick. He shouldn’t be watching this, but he couldn’t drag his eyes away either. His hands on Ciri’s ears fell away, and the girl pushed herself up to look through the window. Geralt absent-mindedly placed his hand on her head and pushed her back down.

As he watched, Jaskier opened his eyes. One arm wrapped around the soldier’s shoulder, but the other hand moved down from his face, groping blindly on the table beside him. His hand landed on a large glass bottle of leather varnish, and he curled his fingers around the neck of it before bringing it up and down on the soldier’s head. The soldier grunted and slid to the ground, out cold.

The Bard sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before placing down the bottle and kneeling down to slip his hands under the soldier’s armpits, hauling him up.

“It’s fine, no help necessary,” Jaskier grunted, and Geralt quickly pushed himself up, vaulting over the window ledge and hurrying to the Bard’s side where he grabbed the soldier from him. He hoisted the man over his shoulder and looked around.

“Where are we hiding him?” He asked gruffly, but Jaskier shook his head.

“We’re not. Place him in the chair.” He instructed, grabbing up one of the bottles of wine. Geralt did as he was instructed, frowning softly as he watched Jaskier uncork the wine and splash it down the soldier’s front. He tipped the soldier’s head back and dripped some more wine into his mouth, catching Geralt’s eyes as he did. “Just enough that he’ll be able to taste it when he wakes up. Lends some credence to the charade.”

“This is very underhanded.” Geralt commented, and Jaskier shrugged.

“My way is quiet and gets you and Cirilla out of here without alerting the entire Nilfgaardian empire. Your way is loud and gets you hunted all the way to Kaer Morhen. Do you have a problem with that?”

Geralt stared at Jaskier for a moment before turning away, grabbing the other bottle and taking a swig before pouring half of it on the ground and laying it down next to the soldier. “Never said I had a problem with it.” He muttered. “Just didn’t expect it from you.” He cleared his throat before looking around as Ciri climbed through the window after him. Ciri glanced at them and the soldier in the chair before hurrying towards Roach’s stall, fumbling in her pockets and pulling out an apple for the mare. Geralt sighed.

“Just one, Ciri.” He called. “She’s been having too many apples recently.” He didn’t miss Jaskier’s guilty expression or the way Jaskier quickly turned away and adjusted the soldier, and he sighed before turning to Roach, who finished the apple in Ciri’s hand and blinked slowly at him. “Alright.” Geralt muttered and got to work saddling Roach up. He hauled himself up onto the horse and reached down to pull Ciri up with him as Jaskier finished off with the soldier. The bard straightened up and nodded at Geralt.

“I’ll catch up with both of you tomorrow,” Jaskier said, turning his eyes from Geralt to Ciri. “Stay safe until then. And keep Geralt out of trouble. You know how he attracts it.” Geralt hummed, a little affronted, but Ciri nodded seriously.

“You too. Don’t start any fights.” She told Jaskier. That brought a smile to Geralt’s lips, and he snorted softly.

“You’ve already got him figured out.” He informed Ciri, urging Roach forwards while Jaskier was still giving him an offended look, and spurring her into a canter as they left the stables and headed out towards the forest trail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has read, left kudos and commented!


	4. He'd Know What To Say

“Geralt, why doesn’t Jaskier travel with you anymore?” Ciri asked as they were setting up camp: Geralt had chosen an area close enough to the road that he would be able to hear when Jaskier was approaching, but deep enough in the forest that any passing Nilfgaardian patrols wouldn’t spot them. Nilfgaardians didn’t stray from the roads unless they were actively fighting, fortunately for them.

Geralt glanced up from the fire he was building, frowning before turning back and casting Igni on the wood with a snap of his fingers: when the flames were this small, he didn’t even need to perform the hand sign.

“I drove him away.” He replied simply, and Ciri frowned as she rolled out her bedroll. She looked up at Geralt expectantly, and Geralt met her eyes, his expression stoic. After a moment he pushed himself to his feet and looked through Roach’s saddlebags, tossing Ciri an apple and some bread before grabbing his own food. “There’s not much to tell.” He informed his charge. “I got angry, and I said some things I meant at the time, but-” He cut himself off, struggling for the right words, and he relaxed a little when Ciri spoke up, filling in the blanks.

“But now you regret it.” She concluded. Geralt grunted and bit into his apple, fixing golden eyes on the fire between them. Ciri rolled the apple from one hand to the other before swallowing and starting to speak. “There was an elven boy, Dara, who helped me a while back while I was on my own,” She said: Geralt’s eyes snapped from the fire to her face, but he remained expressionless. “He was there for me when no-one else was. I took that for granted I think. We didn’t part on good terms. He said that- he said-” She cut herself off and closed her eyes, taking a breath and schooling her features before looking up at Geralt. “We were attacked by a doppler. We survived, but it scared him, and he left. I just watched him leave, I didn’t have the words to make it alright. I don’t think any words would.” She smiled weakly, her eyes wet. Geralt pushed himself to his feet, moving to sit next to Ciri and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Ciri rested her head against Geralt’s chest. “I know you’re not good at expressing yourself. And Jaskier must know as well, he seems to know you well.” Geralt nodded slowly.

“Better than anyone.” He admitted roughly. “He’s good at emotions. He’d know what to say to you when I don’t.” 

“I never expect much, Geralt,” Ciri assured. “And you make up for it in other ways. You protect me, you feed me, you give me the bigger portions when food is scarce – don’t lie, I know you do,” She added before Geralt could say anything, and Geralt closed his mouth. “You’re not bad with emotions, Geralt. You’re just not good at talking.” The Witcher stared down at her for a moment before grunting softly.

“I would argue that I’m not good at either.” He commented. “And anything I could bring myself to say to Jaskier just wouldn’t be enough.”

Ciri hummed, considering this, before pulling away from Geralt and hurrying to her bag, searching through it. “Do you have a quill and ink?” She asked Geralt, who raised an eyebrow at Ciri. “Alright, you don’t. Alright, instead,” She turned to Geralt’s bag instead, and the Witcher pushed himself up.

“What are you-”

“You collect stuff for potions, don’t you?” Ciri checked. “I’m wondering- yes!” She beamed as she uncovered a few jars, and Geralt frowned.

“Honey and resin?” He asked dryly, his frown deepening when Ciri pulled out an egg and his pestle and mortar.

“Yes. Can you get a feather and make a quill? And gather some soot from the fire,” She asked, starting to combine the ingredients she’d produced in the mortar and grinding them into a paste. Geralt shrugged and did as she asked, gathering the soot first and making a rough quill with a harpy feather from his pack and his knife.

Once Ciri had everything she needed, and parchment in the form of the back of the notice the Golem contract had been on, she settled down with it, questioning Geralt and scribbling down on the parchment. Geralt answered the questions as best as he could, quickly understanding what Ciri was doing. 

It was late when they finished, and Geralt sent Ciri to her bedroll. He himself settled down by the fire and closed his eyes, keeping his ears sharp and alert as he meditated.

* * *

Jaskier plucked out a tune he’d been working on as he and Pegasus ambled along down the forest trail towards the crossroads, his spirits lifted by the bright sun that had peered through the clouds that morning, the storm that had been raging finally breaking. 

“What do you think, too moody?” He asked Pegasus, humming when the gelding shook his head. “Yeah, you’re right, I’ve been doing nothing but sullen ballads recently, I need something more upbeat. Ballads are all very well for charming Ladies, but what drunken lout wants to hear about my broken heart a hundred times a night?” He sighed, sliding the lute back onto his back. “But all I can do is follow my creative muse, Pegasus. And unfortunately, that’s been rather sparse recently.” He pressed his lips together before stopping his horse when they reached the crossroads, looking around. “I had rather expected Geralt to come out and meet us here, you know.” He commented. He hadn’t been talking aloud for his own health, after all: He’d been making it as obvious as possible who was travelling the road so Geralt knew to meet him. He looked around himself before slipping off of Pegasus and taking his reign in hand.

“Well, I always had a knack of finding him.” He commented, following his gut instinct and heading southwest into the trees. 

They were only walking for a couple of minutes when they came across Geralt’s campsite, and Jaskier let go of Pegasus to let him join Roach, smiling when he saw Cirilla – but no Geralt.

Ciri looked up from her task of scattering the remains of the fire when she heard Jaskier and she smiled, pushing herself to her feet. “You came!” She greeted. Jaskier nodded, unhooking the coin pouch he’d retrieved from the Ealderman and showing it to Cirilla.

“I did, with Geralt’s full earnings.” He declared. Not that the Ealderman hadn’t tried to cheat him out of what Geralt was worth: First he’d insisted that Jaskier lead him to the scene of the fight, and then he tied to claim that he and Geralt had only agreed on 200 crowns, not the full 380 Geralt had informed Jaskier of. That hadn’t stopped Jaskier from retrieving the full contract money, however. He just had to be a little more persuasive. It wasn’t hard: all he had to do was speculate how the Nilfgaardians would react if they knew the Ealderman had hired the very man they were searching for and lied to their faces about it to boot.

It was a gamble, Jaskier didn’t know for sure that the Ealderman had hidden his hiring of Geralt from the soldiers, but it paid off. The man had paid him an extra 20 crowns just to get him out of town. That wasn’t any great loss, he’d been intending to leave soon anyway, although it was a shame to leave his nice, well furnished (and more importantly flea-less) tavern room behind.

“Talking of, where is Geralt?” Jaskier asked, moving to Roach’s side and stowing the coin pouch away in her saddlebags. Cirilla turned back to the fire, kicking the smouldering ashes.

“He said he needed to get something.” She announced and started to roll up her bedroll. Jaskier bent down and picked up Geralt’s roll to pack that away as well, frowning as he did. “He only just left,” Cirilla added. “He heard you approaching.”

Ah. Well, that explained it then. Jaskier supposed he couldn’t say he was surprised: Geralt had made it very clear what he thought of Jaskier. If he was such a burden, there was no reason he would wish to see him at all. 

“Alright. I suppose I’ll just leave his medallion with you and take my leave.” He said stiffly. Ciri’s eyes widened and she dropped her bedroll to grab Jaskier’s sleeve.

“No, wait! You have to wait for him to come back!” She insisted. Jaskier feared the smile he offered her didn’t entirely reach his eyes, but he was just so _tired_ of pretending that everything was fine.

“I don’t think he will want to see me, Cirilla-”

“Ciri. And he does!” Ciri insisted, still holding onto Jaskier’s sleeve tightly. “Before he gets back, we can-” The girl fumbled for a moment, clearly trying to find a reason to keep Jaskier there. Jaskier waited patiently for her excuse: It was nice, someone wanting him around. “You can tell me stories about Geralt! He never tells me anything about himself, but you used to travel with him, Geralt says you know him better than anyone.”

That took the bard by surprise, and Jaskier couldn’t help but feel a little touched by that. Seeing this, Ciri tightened her fingers. “Please,” She stressed, and Jaskier buckled.

“Well, I do have some stories… I suppose I should start from the beginning- no! From when your destinies intertwined! You see, as his very best friend, Geralt generously volunteered to protect me from some rather uncouth and extremely jealous gentlemen when I was invited to play at your mother’s betrothal-”

* * *

By the time Geralt was satisfied with his find and had made his way back to their camp, two carefully wrapped packages in his arms, the sun was high in the sky. He knew Ciri had kept Jaskier with her the entire time he’d been gone: he’d periodically headed back towards them until he could hear their voices to confirm this and ensure that Ciri wasn’t in any danger, which is why the whole foray had taken so long.

Ciri’s idea was a good start at an apology, but Jaskier would immediately know that it was her idea, not Geralt’s. He needed something just from him as well.

Jaskier and Ciri were laughing when he approached, and he hesitated in the treeline, just watching them. He hadn’t seen Ciri laugh before, and it had been a long time since he’d seen Jaskier so happy. Even before the mountain. Since before Yennefer, in fact. 

“So- so clearly this druid is just using Geralt to fuck with his friend,” Jaskier told Ciri through his snickers. “But Geralt, bless his soul, heads straight over to this poor man, who’s just trying to keep to his vow of silence, and immediately starts grilling him with questions-”

“That he won’t answer!” Ciri spluttered through her laughter, and Jaskier cracked up.

“ _Exactly_! He then proceeds to _torment_ the man for the next hour! Blowing out his fire with signs, hitting pots and pans while he tried to sleep, he even got the man attacked by hornets!”

The two cracked up, and Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“It worked in the end though,” He commented, and Jaskier and Ciri both jumped and looked around at him. Geralt swallowed when Jaskier’s smile slid off of his face. The bard cleared his throat and pushed himself to his feet.

“I- right, well, Geralt’s back,” He pointed out to Ciri. “So I must really take my leave now. It was a joy to talk to you, my lady-”

“Ciri,” Ciri corrected. “And wait, don’t go yet. Geralt, show him!” Geralt met Jaskier’s eyes when he looked curiously at him, and he cleared his throat before fumbling with his pouch and bringing out the parchment they’d prepared the night before, holding it mutely out to Jaskier, who took it with a wary frown.

“Witcher needed to dispose of Golem, will reward handsomely-” He started, and Ciri sighed and grabbed the paper, turning it around in Jaskier’s hands to show the other side. “Oh. Uh, pack of Nekkers, hired to dispatch after attacked locals cattle. Killed 5 but left the 6th so could track it and dispose of the nest. Reward, 104 Crowns. 3 trolls disrupting merchant wagons, persuaded trolls to relocated further from the road, no need to draw weapon. Reward, should have been 236 crowns but with no evidence of job completed, received nothing. Wyvern- What is this?” He asked, looking up at Geralt and Ciri with a frown. Geralt cleared his throat.

“It’s… It was Ciri’s idea.” He started gruffly. Jaskier hummed.

“I could have guessed that, I can actually read it.” Geralt grumbled: Vesemir had taken great pains to ensure the young Witchers under his care could read and write and calculate, but on the Path Geralt didn’t exactly have many chances to practise his handwriting. “What I’m asking is what it’s supposed to be.”

Geralt gave Ciri a helpless look, and the girl stepped up. “It’s all the contracts Geralt could remember since the last time you two travelled together!” She explained. “For you, for inspiration, so you can write more songs! So you don’t have to keep playing ‘Toss a Coin to your Witcher’,”

Jaskier looked between the two, seeming only more confused, so Geralt placed down the packages: one was meat for the journey, which he would stew up that evening. The other, he opened and took out the thick wolf pelt he’d skinned, holding it out to Jaskier. “And this,” He started. “It’s, ah, it’s going to get cold real quick. And I know what you’re like with the cold. It still needs to be tanned properly,” Jaskier hadn’t taken the pelt. He was just staring at it, the paper clutched in his hands. Geralt cleared his throat. “You’ll be able to find someone to tan it for you in any village. Or,” Geralt continued awkwardly. “I can tan it for you if you join us-”

Jaskier’s head snapped up to actually look at Geralt instead of staring mutely at the pelt. For a moment anger and hurt flooded his features, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and Jaskier cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid I won’t be joining the two of you,” Jaskier announced quickly. “Stay safe.” He turned and hurried away, completely forgetting Pegasus. Geralt swore and looked at Ciri again, who pointed after Jaskier.

“Go after him!” She urged, and Geralt nodded, hurrying after Jaskier.

“Jaskier! Damnit, Jaskier, wait!” He snapped as he approached: the human had gotten surprisingly far from Geralt and Ciri’s camp: he was walking fast. “Jaskier, you’ve left your horse behind, you’ll still need to come back- I said wait!” Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s arm as soon as he was close enough, and the bard rounded on him.

“I waited, Geralt!” He snarled, pretty features twisted in anger, and Geralt actually took a step back. “I waited for years! I’m not a stupid teenager any more, and I don’t live as long as a Witcher does. I don’t have the time to keep waiting for you.”

“I know-” Geralt started, because he _did_ know, he’d always known that, how could he not know that when he’d watched Jaskier mature from a foolhardy 18-year-old full of ideas of romantic adventures and good vs evil to a middle-aged man who could be as wise and kind as he could be loud and reckless, while Geralt himself didn’t change at all.

Jaskier kept talking over Geralt however. “I can’t do it again, I can’t keep waiting until Yennefer turns up again-”

“Yennefer?”

“ - And did you even realise that even I waited for you after the mountain as well, like an idiot, I went back to the tavern, but you didn’t even look back-”

“Jaskier, wait, what does Yennefer have to do with this?” Finally, Jaskier stopped talking, gaping at Geralt before throwing his hands in the air and turning, muttering to himself.

“What does Yennefer have to do with this, he asks,” Geralt heard before Jaskier turned back to him. “You, Geralt of Rivia, are the densest man on the _continent_! Twenty-six years I trailed after you like a lovesick puppy, and you never twigged?”

“Lovesick-”

“No, of course, you didn’t, it’s not like I wrote songs about heartbreak every time we parted, or flirted with you at every possible moment,”

“I didn’t-”

“And that was even before you met Yennefer, so it’s not like you can just say it’s because you were focused on-”

“I didn’t know, Jaskier!” Geralt shouted over the bard. “I didn’t realise- I didn’t think a human, any human would feel anything for someone like me, for a _Witcher_.” Jaskier scoffed, and Geralt scowled. “It’s true!”

“And what, if you’d known you would have returned my feelings?” Jaskier drawled. Geralt scowled before shrugging.

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

That shut Jaskier up: he snapped his mouth, staring dumbly at the Witcher. Geralt rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “It pisses me off, watching you fawn over other people. At first, I thought it was because I would have to clean up your mess. I guess it was a little because of that. But then...” He trailed off, not able to find the words. Jaskier licked his lips.

“But?” He prompted, and Geralt sighed.

“I couldn’t relax properly until I knew you were safe and next to me. I found myself always watching you, move to make sure you were safe and just… because I enjoyed it. I would find reasons to touch you, I even let you patch up injuries that didn’t need to be patched up because it meant you were touching me.” To his surprise, he felt his cheeks heating up, and he looked away. Jaskier folded his arms.

The two men just stood there for a minute neither speaking as Geralt regained his composure. “I’m sorry.” Geralt finally said. “What I said, on the mountain, it wasn’t fair. I was hurt, and angry at myself, and tired. In truth…” He stopped talking, closing his eyes. After a moment a hand touched his shoulder, and he opened his eyes, meeting Jaskier’s. 

“Take your time.” Jaskier murmured softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A rush of affection surged through Geralt, and he reached for Jaskier, slowly circling his arms around the man when he didn’t pull away. He rested his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder and breathed in, flooding his senses with cedarwood and roses. Jaskier was far more than Geralt deserved…

“In truth,” The Witcher started again. “You’re the best thing that has happened to me, in my long life. Just when I was starting to believe that I was the monster humans said I was, you were there. And without you dragging me to that damned betrothal, Ciri wouldn’t,” He had to stop again, and Jaskier rested a hand on his head.

“You wouldn’t have invoked Law of Surprise,” He surmised, and Geralt nodded, breathing in again. 

Jaskier’s touch was calming, grounding somehow. It helped Geralt think clearly, carefully picking his words.

“I’m not going to ask you to travel with us to Kaer Morhen if you don’t want to. But I needed-”

“I want to.” Jaskier interrupted, and Geralt pulled back, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “I do. But I can’t, not just yet. I’ve got business of my own to finish before winter.” Geralt frowned, and Jaskier shook his head. “Nothing you need to worry about. Business in Oxenfurt. They’ve asked me to teach a couple of classes. It’s actually quite an honour. For them.” He smirked, and Geralt smirked. “But after that, I would like to join you. It will be fun to see Eskel and Lambert again.” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Are they all you’re looking forward to?” He asked. Jaskier hummed dramatically.

“Well, now you ask, Ciri will need someone to tell her embarrassing stories about you-” Geralt shoved Jaskier, and the bard laughed. “My dear, you know I am just teasing.” Despite himself, Geralt smiled.

“I’m not convinced. We will meet at the mountain pass then? In a month’s time?” Jaskier nodded, and Geralt let out a breath before looking over his shoulder. “Alright, Ciri. We’ve talked.” He called. Jaskier chuckled when Ciri came out from the treeline.

The girl had the good grace to look slightly bashful at least, and she smiled at Jaskier.

“So you’re joining us in Kaer Morhen?” She checked, and Jaskier confirmed that.

“For the winter. After that, I’ll probably be travelling again. I wasn’t made for living in one place for too long.” He pulled away from Geralt, starting to walk back to the camp with Ciri. “You’ll have to remind me to tell you about Eskel and Lambert when we next meet. I suppose they’re what you could call Geralt’s brothers. I’ll have to tell you all about the time the three decided to indulge in a few dozen bottles of White Gull spiked wine,”

Geralt watched the two head back towards camp to finish packing up and so Jaskier could collect Pegasus, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like the future may be slightly brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! This was my first Witcher fanfic (and my first fanfic on AO3 in general), and it felt almost like a rite of passage to do a Fix-It Geraskier fic. I've got lots of other fic ideas, but I forced myself to finish this before I moved onto anything else.
> 
> I listened primarily to The Amazing Devil's new Album Horror and the Wild, and Dollightful's doll modding videos on youtube.
> 
> I used a liberal combination of Netflix Series, Game and Book lore in this fic, and the story Jaskier was telling Ciri in this last chapter was the 'Shock Therapy' quest from Witcher 3: Technically this happens when Ciri is an adult, but the games aren't canon to the Netflix series so I just lifted the quest. I guess in the canon of this fic, Geralt and Jaskier went to Skellige before meeting Borch?
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who read, left kudos and commented!


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